The Lighthouse
by electric violinist
Summary: Companion piece to Marble Eye's story of the same name. Brendan walks a lonely road, lost and alone.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: So, Marble Eyes wrote a thing. Apparently this meant I had to write this thing and very quickly. So I have. I'm not sure I'm selling it. It's a companion piece to her story, The Lighthouse, but there is no designated order. Read hers, too, it's awesome.**

**Enjoy and tell us what you think. **

The lighthouse stood, proud, lonely and majestic, at the end of the long pier. Against the pale blue of the sky and the grey-blue of the sea, it might have looked like a sore thumb, a red blot on the landscape, ugly and out of place. It didn't. It fit this place perfectly. Brendan thought it looked like the pin holding down the sky.

He'd made this walk so many times. Even in prison he had trodden it in his dreams, through the lush greenery of the park, past the loud, steady flow of the power plant, along the cold grey wall itself. He hadn't generally made it on purpose – thoughts of the outside only really made you realise where you actually were all the more – he just seemed to close his eyes and find himself going there. Sometimes he was with the lads; kids he'd grown up with that followed him around through intimidation and manipulation, skills he'd learnt from Seamus. They were people he'd watched to see if they were weak, pansies like him, if their das gave them the punishments Brendan's gave him. If they dreaded the end of the day as much as Brendan did.

But mostly he made that journey with Steven.

When, later, he'd described that most important journey (the real one, not the multitude of dream ones), he'd said that it had been like undressing for the first time. He'd mentioned Seamus' name to Steven for the first time in his life, and told him more besides. He'd never shared that sort of thing with anyone, at least not with someone that mattered. His every communication, relationship, touch with his father was a secret, completely shameful beyond any physical imperfection he could imagine. It wasn't a scar, it was like having a great big filthy maggot where his soul should have been, a festering mess of self-hatred, doubt, fear, shame, blame, anger, disgust that threatened to devour him whole, replace him entirely. Maybe it should.

Because he was disgusting. He was everything his father told him he was – a queer, a pansy, a girl. Weak, pathetic, worthless. And maybe Steven was right, maybe being gay was alright, at least, Steven was gay and he was perfect. But that didn't mean his father wasn't right about the rest of it.

The shrink had told him otherwise. She'd listened to his story with tears in her eyes, at least the parts of the stories he was willing to let her know. Maybe he'd got to a stage where he just couldn't get any lower, and maybe a couple of hours a week explaining what a fucked up psycho he was would help. He'd called her 'Doc' because anything else would have made her a human, someone who could judge and pity him. He didn't want pity. He didn't want anything. At least, nothing he could have had. And it was this or sit in silence for the rest of his life.

He'd been shocked when the sneaky bitch had given evidence at his trial.

It had taken the best part of a year for a trial to even happen. Of course, he'd been refused bail; waving a gun, even an unloaded one, at police officers and the general public seemed to have that effect on judges. So instead, he'd gone to the stupid psych evaluations and doctor's appointments until he was blue in the face, saying not a word. He'd thought this one was nothing to do with his trial and all that. She'd said she was there to treat him. He was pretty sure she'd said it was confidential, but maybe that was one of the other ones.

Apparently being raped repeatedly from the age of eight was considered a high degree of provocation. Which meant he could serve a maximum of four years for the murder of Seamus Brady. And the bitch shrink, who he'd trusted with his deepest darkest secrets, seemed to think the rest of his confession was a series of fantasies, created by his subconscious to explain his father's actions, and she had managed to persuade his previously sensible and down to earth lawyers of the same. There was no evidence to link him to Joel's dad's disappearance, no motive for murdering Danny Houston whose death was attributed to Warren Fox, no permission from next of kin to exhume the body of Florence Brady, whose cause of death had already been recorded as lung cancer, and no reason to suspect that Simon Walker, who had recognised mental health issues, hadn't jumped in front of a train of his own volition. Even Brendan standing up and shouting "I fucking pushed him!" didn't sway the jury on that.

Innocent of murder. Guilty of manslaughter. Mitigating circumstances, blah, blah, blah.

Four years, minimum of two, depending on a satisfactory psychological evaluation. Brendan had assumed no one in their right mind would consider him sane, and had instructed Cheryl in no uncertain terms to tell Steven he'd be in prison for life. So he felt a bit weird walking down a Dublin pier at two in the afternoon less than three years after he went inside never hoping to see daylight again.

He had no fucking clue what he was doing with the pictures. Maybe he was an amateur photographer now. Same subject, different day, different mood, different angle. He had intended to send a letter, at least, after he had ruled out the possibility of telephoning. How could that possibly end well? But he'd sat at a hotel desk, pen in hand, sheet of paper in front of him for hours. There were no words for what he needed to say. He wasn't even sure he should be contacting Steven. Steven would be leading his own life, maybe back with Doug, Amy letting him see the kids as often as he chose. Brendan shouldn't bring his black hole of an existence crashing back onto that.

He'd started taking the photos one day. He had enough money, and decided to rent a flat in Sandymount. He wouldn't have even been able to explain it to himself. Why there? Why not near Cheryl? Why not somewhere completely new? With nothing to do, no job, no intention of getting one, he had taken to walking. Taking a photo on his phone. He bought a printer. He printed off that day's picture, stuck a stamp to the back and scribbled on an old familiar address. Without another mark on the page, he'd posted it. He repeated it the next day. And the next. Walking to the lighthouse, taking a photograph, sending it onwards.

He figured out it wasn't the right address soon enough. His assets had been frozen while he was inside, and it had taken him time to figure out what he actually owned now, but in amongst stuff from his lawyer was the insurance claim form for the flats he'd once bought in Hollyoaks. He'd read the information twice before he could process it.

He was on the phone to Cheryl within seconds. He shouted. Roared at her. Why didn't she tell him? What happened? Was he… was he…. Was he…

She told him the story. Brendan was shocked; so many people he'd known taken out in one blast, but not Steven. Steven was OK. Steven was alive. Steven wasn't dead. He felt bad for the student girl, and the weird one and even Douglas, but he'd sacrifice them all and a hundred others if it meant Steven could be ok.

He got the new address off Cheryl then swore her to secrecy, said he wanted to check on Steven, and there was no way he was going to drop in on his life and let him change whatever he'd managed to build. Cheryl had protested, but Brendan knew how to manipulate her.

But he kept sending the pictures, to the right address this time. He didn't think about it. He just sent them. Maybe they were just enough to let Steven know he was there, but also let him ignore them should he choose. He didn't dare hope for an answer. He didn't try to give him the opportunity. He left no return address. He walked and took the photo, printed it, posted it then drank in a local pub. He thought about seducing the young lad behind the bar. He was pretty enough. He drank some more, and went home.

The next day he did the same.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: I can't believe that bitch Marble gave away my twist! BITCH! (Love her really. But she is a bitch!) Not telling her any future plot twists! Like this one. She has no idea what happens in this chapter. Mwa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!**

* * *

There was a very annoying sound coming from somewhere near Brendan's head.

He groaned. What the hell was it? Buzzing and jangling by his head, pulling him from his beautiful oblivion.

He hit at it with a hand. Something tumbled to ground. Now the buzzing was further away, but still very annoying. He rolled over, pulled something soft over his head, and let out a great sigh when the buzzing finally stopped. He let sleep overtake him once more.

The buzzing started again.

No longer able to reach the offensive item, Brendan was obliged to find it. He opened his eyes to the magnolia room of his rented home, and blinked in the light, groaning once more. He leant over the side of the bed, searching for what he realised was his mobile. Stupid thing. So fucking loud!

It rang off again and Brendan relaxed. It was probably a PPI claim or something anyway, nothing important. There was nothing important anymore.

It started to ring again. Obviously something was important to someone.

He groped once again at the floor around his bed and scooped up the offensive device. "What?" he growled.

"Brendan Brady," the harsh female voice trilled in his ear, far too loud for this early, "this is the third time I've tried to call you!"

"Huh?" said Brendan.

"You've forgotten, haven't you?" said Cheryl accusatorily, "You were supposed to be picking me up at the airport!"

Brendan groaned again.

"Have you only just woken up?" Cheryl shrieked.

"No," Brendan lied.

"Right, you've got the time it takes me to drink a coffee to pick me up or your life will not be worth living!"

Brendan grumbled.

"Do not take that tone with me, Brendan Brady," Cheryl scolded, "I've left two wee children alone with their terrified father for this!"

"Oh, I'm sorry my return from doing your prison time is so inconvenient, sis. Please, I'll tell the police who really shot Seamus."

"Brendan!" Cheryl moaned, "Come on, I came here to help you."

"I don't need help, thanks," he replied, "I'm fine."

"Which is why you're still asleep at gone ten?" his sister accused, "How much did you drink last night?"

"About a couple of none of your business."

"Oh, come on Bren!" Cheryl said, changing her tone to a plea, "It's horrible here. There's a man playing the bagpipes."

Brendan groaned. She was playing the little sister card. It still worked.

"Alright!" he said, "Give me half an hour."

"Good," said Cheryl, obvious smile in her voice. "I'm looking forward to seeing you, Brendan," she said more sweetly, "I do love you, you know."

Brendan grunted. Cheryl should know he didn't say stuff like that. Surely going to prison for four years was enough to prove that he loved Cheryl. "I'll be there," he said, instead, and hung up.

He groaned again when he sat up. He realised the sunshine was heavy through the curtains, so probably, Cheryl had been right. Midday sounded about right. He rubbed his eyes, and wondered how much he had drunk last night.

He remembered going to the bar again. He remembered talking to the pretty little barman, then… he looked beside him on the bed. No barmen, pretty or otherwise decorated the pillows. No used condoms were evident, no signs of sex at all. That was a relief. He pulled open a cupboard and shoved on a tracksuit and coat before getting into his car.

The drive to the airport was easy enough, and he was only ten minutes shy of the half hour he'd promised Cheryl. When he realised she hadn't lied about the bagpipes, he felt a bit guilty. But not very. He'd spent four years in prison for her; she could cope with an hour of bagpipe music for him.

It only took him a few minutes to find her, and when he did, she sprung at him the moment she saw him, throwing her arms around his neck, and expecting him to take her weight. He did, he always would. He'd carry her whenever she asked; his beautiful sister who had brought the only sparks of light to his grey turmoil of a childhood.

"Hey," he said into her mass of yellow curls currently taking up his entire vision.

"Hey yourself," she said back. "I have missed you." And she left no doubt how deeply she felt those words. Brendan could feel hot tears on his neck where she'd buried her head.

"I missed you too," he said. "But it's OK, it's over now."

She only clung tighter, and Brendan wondered if he was going to have to carry her to the car after al. But soon she was leaning up to his ear. "Thank you," she whispered, "Thank you." She whispered it again and again until Brendan had to hush her. Thanking wasn't necessary. He'd made the decision to pay for all his crimes, and protecting Cheryl from anything and everything at the same time was second nature to him. He only regretted one thing about that, and sometimes he even thought that was for the best.

He eventually managed to drag Cheryl out of the airport, and was made to pull a leopard print suitcase littered in pink bows. He was pleased to see being rich hadn't improved Cheryl's terrible taste. As they went down an escalator he saw a woman going the other way who caught his eye. He looked at her hard, and she looked back, a quiet smile on her face. He racked his brains. Where did he know her from? A wrinkled face, grey hair tucked into an old fashioned nun's head dress.

He couldn't think.

"What is it?" Cheryl asked.

"Nothing," he replied. "It's nothing."

She didn't look convinced, but didn't comment on it. Instead, she told him everything anyone could possibly want, or not want, to know about his two new nephews. They sounded like a handful, and he felt a small sense of pity for Nate to be alone with them for however long Cheryl was intending to force her presence on Brendan.

He drove her back to his, which she inspected with a fine toothcomb and pronounced filthy. She took fifty Euros from Brendan's wallet with a shout that she was going to buy cleaning products. Brendan knew better than to argue, though he had a perfectly clean home here. Instead he offered her a lift to the supermarket, thinking about how he could pop down to the lighthouse while she was inside. She accepted, and he dropped her, and made his way to his place of daily pilgrimage. The sky was clear and blue now, and he left his coat in the car to walk down.

It was still beautiful, even when it felt like there was a whole piece of it missing. The fishermen at the end nodded to him, they'd begun to recognise him now he was a regular feature. The bright morning sunshine was warm on his face and he sat to enjoy it, beside the steps of the swimming club, just as he had with Steven on that cold day in December so many years ago.

He sat there for some time, watching the sparkling water and the shoreline city and mountains so clear in the distance. He wished he could have brought Steven back in the summer. It had a different quality in the sunshine, glinting like magic rather than mysterious and mystical in the grey. Whenever the sun shone in Dublin.

"Excuse me," said a voice behind them, "Do you mind..."

A man in swimming trunks was standing awkwardly behind him, trying to get to the steps. Brendan shuffled over just enough for the man to climb down the ladder. Brendan laughed at him. "Seriously? This is Dublin, not the med!"

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it!" said the man, lowering himself into the Irish sea with a small flinch.

"Yeah," said Brendan, "That's never gonna happen."

The man smiled proudly as he pushed far enough from the ladder to be treading water, "Just admiring the view?" he asked, and Brendan wondered if he was talking about the sea and landscape around them or if Brendan now just gave off gay vibes.

"Waiting for someone," he said. "Fooling myself. They're not coming."

"Well you never know," said the man in the water.

Brendan didn't reply. He looked out one more time and got up, walking back to his car. He drove back to the town, giving way for a taxi on the way.

Cheryl was waiting for him again. He didn't explain where he'd been, just picked up her shopping bags and threw them into the boot. "Lunch?" he said.

"Yeah, sure," she said. "Where do you want to go?"

Brendan shrugged. There were a couple of pubs in town, but he didn't really want his nightly drinking habits to be mentioned, so he took Cheryl to a coffee shop a little further off. He bought them both a sandwich and himself crisps, cake, biscuit and fruit. Cheryl grinned, "Glad to see you've not lost your appetite."

Brendan smirked. No way. "How's Nathan?" he asked.

"Oh, he's grand," said Chez, with a smile, "he's terrified of kids you know, but he tries so hard to hide it."

Brendan smiled. He'd got that impression before, and vaguely remembered Cheryl going on about how Nate hated children before they even got married.

"And the house is amazing," she said, "There are rooms bigger than our old apartment. You should have seen Ste's face when..."

"Steven?" said Brendan. He couldn't help himself.

Yeah," said Chez, "he visited. Just after you… you know."

Brendan leant forward, urgent, "You didn't tell him about ..."

"No," Cheryl interrupted, "you made me promise, remember?"

Brendan nodded, satisfied. Steven was getting on with his life. As he'd suspected. As he knew he should. His heart crumbled a little.

"And did I tell you that I think you're an idiot?" Cheryl demanded.

"Probably," said Brendan, "but I rarely listen, so..."

"He would have waited for you, you know!"

Brendan gave her the same look he'd given her the day she'd asked him whether horses could really fly, "You think I don't know that Chez?"

"Well..."

"That's exactly why you had to lie to him, Chez. He'd have sat around and done nothing when he should have been building his business and taking care of his kids and becoming the next Gordon Ramsey."

"Well, he's done precisely none of that," said Cheryl scathingly, "He gave up the business, gave up the children and lost another job working for Tony."

Brendan flinched. "He's better off without me."

Cheryl put her head to one side, and looked at him sadly, "You don't think if maybe he'd had something to look forward to he might have actually thought he had something to fight for?"

"Nope," said Brendan, "Steven fights over anything. It's just what he does."

"Brendan!" Cheryl snapped, "You know he's moved in with John Paul McQueen?"

Another part of Brendan's heart, a very large part, shrivelled and died. "Good," he said.

"Seriously?" said Cheryl, "That's all you've got to say? He moves in with a guy who slept with both his exes and his father and you think that's good?"

Brendan shrugged. He could barely process a word Cheryl is saying. He was too busy trying not to explode.

"Here," he said, and tossed her the car keys. "Clean whatever you want. I'll be back when I feel like it."

"Brendan!" she protested.

"No, Cheryl," he said, strolling away.

She didn't follow, and Brendan dared hope she'd learned to recognise when he wanted to be left alone.

He thought about going back to the pier and throwing himself in, but the fishermen would probably still be there and he would just be rescued by some well-meaning idiot. So he went somewhere he knew he could find oblivion.

The bar was nice one. Sofas with curious art deco backs and dark wood tables without that ugly stickiness you got in most pubs. The barman, too, was dressed smartly in a white shirt and tie and an apron, like something from the nineteen thirties. The way he smiled at Brendan wasn't from the nineteen thirties though.

"What can I get you?" he said, gaze appreciative.

"Whiskey," he said, "Whatever's the strongest."

"Bad day?" said the barman, as he grabbed a glass.

"Bad ... life," Brendan replied.

"On the rocks?" the barman asked with a sympathetic smile.

"Nope," said Brendan, "just as quick as it can arrive."

The barman smiled again, and filled up the glass with Jameson's. "Wanna talk about it?" he asked as he handed the glass over.

"Nope," said Brendan, and he poured it down his throat.

The barman looked at him, and told him the price before asking if he wanted another.

"Keep 'em coming," he said, shoving the glass back over the bar so the barman had to catch it. He dug out his wallet too, and slammed some notes onto the wood too.

"Drinking to forget?" the barman asked.

"Aren't we all?" Brendan replied, taking this new glass slightly slower.

"Maybe," said the barman, "a lover?"

Brendan smiled, "Aren't we all?" he repeated, and took another gulp, finishing this new glass.

"You know," said the barman, pushing the glass aside and leaning forward over the bar. "There are better ways to forget a lover."

Brendan snorted. "Are there?" he asked, drily, "I never knew."

"Hmm-mm," the barman replied, "and I've been told that my tongue can make people forget their own name."

Giving the barman a once over he'd already completed days ago, Brendan said "Cocky git, aren't ye?"

"Maybe," said the barman, "but I've been told it's my arse that's my best feature."

A day ago Brendan would have said no. An hour ago, Brendan would have said no. But one thought of John-Paul McQueen's cock in Steven's arse was enough to change his mind.

"It'll be now, then," said Brendan. He got up and marched to the loos. He knew the barman was following, he didn't even have to check. One of the cubicles was locked but it hardly mattered. Whoever was in there would clear out soon enough when they realised what was happening beside them.

He grabbed the barman bodily the second they arrived, and shoved him into the stall. Then he shoved him against a wall. "Oh God!" said the man, prematurely as far as Brendan was concerned. Brendan ignored him in favour of shoving down his trousers.

"Please more," the barman shouted, and Brendan heard whoever the poor sod was in the next stall realise what they were doing. Brendan hadn't even bothered to shut the stall door yet, but can see that it's sprung closed enough that only his companion can be seen from outside.

"Yes, yes!" cried the barman, as though Brendan was anywhere near his sexual organs yet. He actually considered not going through with it when he heard the poor bastard next door leaving in a rush.

"Come on!" the barman groaned, "come on, please! I need it! Please!"

This guy had nothing on Steven's sexy talk. Steven could have made Brendan come just from begging alone. But Steven didn't want him. Steven was with John Paul McQueen.

So Brendan undid his fly, pulled on a condom and fucked a barman in a pub toilet. He didn't care. He fucked hard and fast and with almost no lube or preparation because he wanted this to be Steven, he wanted Steven to feel the pain of being torn apart like Brendan was feeling. He wanted Steven to feel him, just him, just his strength and his power so he would never dare defy him again, even when he knew it was his own fault.

And the barman couldn't have been happier. He squirmed and shouted and groaned and moaned and thrust back at Brendan. At one stage he tried to turn his head to kiss, but Brendan had no interest in that. He was thinking about catching Steven and holding him a prisoner so no one else could touch him.

The barman came an age before Brendan, which was ridiculous when Brendan hadn't done this in four years. He'd have laughed if he wasn't so busy trying to come himself. He closed his eyes. The barman's hair was wrong. He scrunched his eyes up tight until he could see nothing but black and splodges of light and Steven lying on his bed and promising to love no one but Brendan as long as he lived. Steven taking everything he was, the violence, the sex, the hatred, the misery, the obsession, the love, and loving it all, as though Brendan could ever be worthy. Daring to believe Steven meant it, that it wasn't just because he was twenty three and would told everyone he loved them. "I'm never gonna give up on you." Waiting for a breakup and being told he was worth the aggravation. Steven wrapping his legs around Brendan and looking at him as though this was all he could ever wish for in life.

Brendan came, Steven's name on his lips.

He fell against the barman, exhausted and disappointed. This wasn't Steven. It never would be Steven again. He stood straight in seconds, wiping himself off with loo roll, and shoving the same at the barman.

"That was amazing," said the barman, voice ecstatic.

"Yeah," said Brendan, unable to even be witty it was such a lie and pulling off the condom, throwing it carelessly down the toilet with disgust.

"I'll put my number in your phone," said the barman, reaching for Brendan's pocket.

"Hey!" Brendan protested, pulling away, not just because he was sure there was still come on the barman's hands.

The barman smiled, and wiped his hands on the loo roll, "Fine, you put it in, it's 0..."

"No thanks," said Brendan, zipping up.

The barman frowned, "But if you don't have my number..."

"Then I can't call you," said Brendan, "smart lad, ain't ye?"

He turned away. Now it was the barman's turn to protest. "Hey!" he cried.

Brendan ignored him and strolled to a sink to wash his hands

"You can't just fuck me and go," said the barman.

"Sure I can," said Brendan, checking his hair in the bathroom mirror. "Watch me."

"Have you seen my wrists?" the barman demanded.

Brendan glanced at them. They were red, and would probably be bruised for a while. He'd gripped too hard, got too lost in his emotions. But he doubted the barman was complaining, if his groans and this begging for more were anything to go by. "There you go," he said, "something to remember me by. See ya."

"What do you think the police will say when I show them that, eh?" the barman snarled. And Brendan stopped in the doorway, one hand holding the door open. A middle aged man was about to step into the toilet.

"Get lost," Brendan growled at the man, and slammed the door shut. He turned to the bar man slowly. "What did you say?"

"I said what do you think the police will say when I show them my bruises?" the barman repeated, making every word clear with spite from nowhere.

Brendan raised his eyebrows, "I imagine they'd say, 'wow, barman, you must like it rough'."

The barman's lips curled. "When I tell them that you raped me? You think you'll find it so funny then?"

For a moment Brendan was gobsmacked. If he were in a stronger frame of mind he'd have said to the bar man that not a single person who had overheard them, and that probably included everyone within a quarter of a mile, could possibly have denied that the barman wanted exactly what he got. But he wasn't thinking clearly.

"What's your name?" he asked.

The barman answered "Sean," or something, but Brendan didn't hear it. He heard Kevin. The man who had destroyed his last few months of happiness. The boy who didn't deserve to live. Like this one. They were monsters who raped. The creatures who preyed on the innocent and deserved to roast in the fires of hell for all eternity. And people like this, people who accused normal people of being monsters. Somehow they were worse.

By the time he left the bathroom, the barman was a quivering mess on the floor. He had a dozen more bruises for his trouble. Bruises that matched those on Brendan's knuckles. Brendan barely remembered making them.

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**AN: Reviews are greatly appreciated.**


	3. Chapter 3

Brendan arrived home to a flat that smelled of enough cleaning products to make him gag, the mix of perfumes that were pretending to be lemons and mountains so strong that it didn't even feel like his home. Not that it ever had. He had no home. He only had a place to sleep.

"That you, Bren?" Cheryl called from somewhere. Brendan didn't respond. He had other things he needed to do.

He stormed his way to the bathroom. His following actions were more familiar to him than they had a right to be. As the bloody water trickled from his fingers, he realised that he should have done this in the pub toilet. The fact he'd walked all the way here from the pub with blood drying on his knuckles was enough to show him how little he cared about his freedom.

"You're a monster," hissed that voice in his head, as it always did, as it always would. Once it had sounded like his teachers, 'You're bad news, Brendan Brady'. This one was more like Simon Walker.

"You don't deserve anyone," it hissed, "Look at you. You're a violent, disgusting creature."

Brendan couldn't argue. He saw the barman cower from his fists, but his face had changed. He saw Steven, weeping, crying, begging, apologising for the evil things Brendan did. Brendan didn't deserve to be loved. He didn't deserve kindness or care. He barely deserved life.

"Bren?" called a voice through the door, "are you alright, love?"

"I'm fine, Chez," he replied.

"You're a monster," hissed the voice of Simon Walker.

Brendan gripped the sink and tried to clear his head.

"Sweetie, I'm worried about you," she said.

"I'm fine!" Brendan repeated, this time in the shout he almost never used on Cheryl.

"You're evil!" hissed Simon Walker.

"Shall I make you a cup of tea, Bren?" Cheryl offered.

Brendan groaned inwardly, guiltily. He wanted nothing more than for Cheryl to leave him alone, even though he knew she was only there through love of him.

"You don't deserve her," Simon Walker sang in his head, "and when she hears about that lad, it'll break her heart."

Brendan washed his face.

"And how will she feel when she sees you dragged off by the police again?" Simon Walker added with glee.

With violence Cheryl should never see, he threw open the door of the bathroom. She jumped, having had her cheek pressed against it, listening for him. And Brendan cursed himself once more. Another proof that he was a freak, a violent monster with no right to infringe on her world.

"How long are you planning on staying?" he growled.

He saw something in Cheryl's eyes harden. He hoped it was the realisation that he was hopeless and wrong, and that she should escape.

"As long as you need me," she replied, fiercely.

"So you'll be going already, then," Brendan grumbled.

"No, I won't, Brendan Brady!" Cheryl replied, crossly, "I know you only push me away when you're hurting."

"Hurting?" Brendan repeated, "I ain't hurting."

"Yes you are, and you know it!" Cheryl snapped, "You can't hide from me! I know you, Brendan Brady!"

"Know me? You didn't know I was gay 'til I was thirty two!" Brendan snapped, and because he wanted to hurt her, "You couldn't tell what our Da was doing in the room next to yours!"

That shut her up. That brought tears to her eyes. That did the trick. That made Simon Walker laugh 'You're a vicious monster! You don't deserve anyone!'

He didn't want to deal with those tears, or the heartbreak. He'd just blamed Cheryl for something she would never forgive herself for. He was a slimy maggot, eating away at her beautiful life. She should have had the fairy tale. Brendan had stolen that from her, with his disgusting life, with his disgusting secrets.

"I expect you gone when I get back!" he growled, and practically threw himself back out of the flat.

He bought some whiskey and drove to the only spot he knew. He needed to stop weighing Cheryl down, being the fly in her soup, the blot on her happiness. His children would be fine without him, Eileen would be happy to know he would never again darken her doorstep, and Steven… Steven didn't care. Steven could find happiness with John-Paul McDickhead. Brendan couldn't even wish him ill for long.

'Ste is safer without a piece of filth like you!' Simon Walker told him, almost conversationally. 'He's happier, and now he even gets to be whole. Without you, breaking him apart and knocking him down.'

Brendan couldn't agree more.

He sat on the pier, where he'd sat every day since he'd arrived in Dublin, where he'd sat on that day with Steven so long ago, and agreed with himself that this would be the last time. He had no reason to live and every reason to die. Cheryl would be sad for a while, she might even blame herself, but she had Nathan to show her how wrong she was, and then she would be fine. Declan and Padraig would inherit his money, the funds that had been frozen when he went inside, which would pay for the start he'd never got; they could get a flat or go to university or start a business, whatever they wanted. And Eileen could live in the knowledge that they would be OK.

Brendan was the only one in the way of them all finding happiness. He had been a selfish bastard to hold on this long.

He flooded with sudden anger, anger at his own worthless existence, and for the first time in his pitiful life, he made himself pay for it. He punched the wall of the swimming club, knowing that the hard stone would have no mercy on his fists, on those villainous creatures that had brought so much misery and pain. They split, they hurt, and the blood he'd only just washed off returned, thankfully, now his own. At last, they'd inflicted a deserved injury.

He sat there on the pier for some time. He'd jumped before, and knew it wasn't far enough to kill him; he'd been unlucky to have even broken his arm then. And unless he was drunk it would take far too long to drown. But Brendan knew plenty of other ways he could end it. After all, he'd ended enough lives to have got some ideas.

He heard feet shuffling behind him and turned. He'd expected a dog walker, or a power plant worker on an evening stroll or the weird swimming man again.

It wasn't.

Steven was standing behind him. The rays from the low sun gleaming from his body. As though Brendan needed more reminders of the angel he'd nearly destroyed. He let his eyes meet the visions'. His whole body flooded with quivering electricity. It was a false reaction to a hallucination.

"Great! First Doug, now you!"

That was an odd thing for his hallucination to say. Maybe it was a comment on the whole about to die thing. But Brendan was beyond imaginary Steven's persuasive skills. He'd made his decision. But he wasn't going to turn away a final fantasy.

Imaginary Steven wobbled a bit, as he got closer, and Brendan caught him, helping him down.

"Steven," he whispered, because he loved the name Steven. He loved that other people called him Ste. It had felt like a special nickname that he could use in public without sounding soppy or silly. Steven still looked wobbly so Brendan put his hands on his shoulders. They were strangely solid for his imagination.

That must be down to the loss of his final marble.

"Go on, then," said Imaginary Steven, "Moan at me like he did. That's why you're here isn't it? To tell me where I'm going wrong with my life."

Brendan removed his hands. This was a weird conversation for his imagination. "Steven," he said again, because he couldn't think of anything else, and Steven was beautiful and should be named regularly.

Imaginary Steven took a sip from the bottle of whiskey that Brendan had brought, wrinkling his nose in disgust, just as he did every time he'd tried whiskey when they were together. "This stuff is proper rank even when it's not real. You know you can't really lecture me; we all know where you ended up."

Brendan blinked at him, golden against the blue and grey that surrounded them. It was impossible that he'd ever really tempted this beauty into his life. "Are you real?" he asked, breathlessly, knowing the answer, but curious as to how far his fucked up head would take this fantasy.

"About as real as you are," Steven told him with a strangely sardonic smirk for Steven. He put a hand out, "Got to say not liking the beard," he added, touching the mess Brendan saw no reason to sort out as his life was over. "Ew." Which made sense, because Steven had always had a strange relationship with Brendan's facial hair, both taking the mickey out of it regularly while adoring the feel of it and watching with fear whenever a razor came out. It almost made Brendan smile. Except he noticed a flaw.

"What happened to you?" he asked, touching Steven's cheek. Maybe his fantasies weren't being as kind as he'd thought. They had decided to remind him of how Steven usually looked when he was with Brendan. Right now he was pale and thin, eyes like bruises, cheeks sunken, face a mask of misery.

Imaginary Steven actually giggled. "My flat went boom and Doug went splat," he said, making Brendan flinch. He'd already known about that. "Then the kids got taken away and then I got with John Paul, who liked my dad just a little bit too much. Shouldn't you know that, with you being a ghost or whatever you are?"

Brendan did know ninety percent of that. The rest he'd probably made up. Steven didn't even have a Dad, so there was no way John-Paul McBastard was having an affair with one.

"You're never normally this real or here this long," Brendan told imaginary Steven. Which was true. He'd tried to have fantasies about this beautiful man in prison, and he'd only ever managed fleeting glimpses in the corners of his eyes. Maybe his brain decided he did deserve this now because he was making the right choice. One last imaginary farewell before Brendan got out of everyone's way.

"Neither are you," Imaginary Steven replied, thoughtfully, "must be a good batch."

Which made no sense.

Steven stood up. "I'm glad you're here," he announced, "it feels right it being just me and you at the end."

The end? Right, Brendan's end. Except Brendan's fantasy Steven should at least want to fuck before Brendan killed himself. "What are you talking about Steven?" he asked.

Steven bent down and kissed Brendan gently. It felt so real, Brendan almost wept. But Steven pulled away, leaving Brendan even more confused. "In the next life Brendan," he said, voice a soft whisper. And Brendan was about to complain, say there was no way they were going to the same places. Brendan was going straight down.

Then Imaginary Steven jumped into the water. He made a strangely large splash for an imaginary person.

Brendan stared after him for a while, surprised to see the bubbles and the foam. You'd think fantasy suicides would be less ugly.

"Oh my God!" shouted a voice behind him, "He's fallen in."

Brendan looked around. Had someone fallen in while he was imaging Steven?

"Well don't just sit there!" cried the old woman, who appeared at his side, "I can hardly help him out, can I?"

Brendan looked back down at the foam and bubbles that showed where Steven had landed. They were clearing, revealing a shape in the murky water. A real person. Someone had just gone fallen in.

"What, you're gonna kiss him then let him drown?" the old woman cried.

And thoughts began occurring in Brendan's head. He didn't dare believe them. He pushed away from the pier and dived with a splash into the water beside the bubbles. He followed the shape down, not too far. The water was barely three metres deep here, thankfully, and he grabbed a hold of the sinking figure and dragged it up until he could reach the ladder.

A small crowd were gathering above him, and Brendan had the young man that he still didn't believe could be Steven held close with an arm around his chest. "Help me!" he shouted at the assembled people, and a couple of the people he recognised as fishermen held out hands. Brendan pushed the limp body as far up the ladder as he could until the fishermen could reach his shoulders and pull him the rest of the way. Brendan followed, and stared down.

Steven.

Steven on the pier in Ireland, eyes bruised, cheeks sunken, soaking wet and beautiful and suicidal. And quite obviously using drugs if the track lines on his arms were anything to go by.

"Steven," he said.

He could hear someone calling an ambulance. Maybe they were calling an ambulance for Brendan, because Brendan was seeing things.

Steven coughed and gasped on the ground.

"Steven," Brendan repeated. "It can't…"

"No!" Steven groaned, "no, I want… no!"

Mumblings ran around the passing crowd, "What's he saying?" "What's happening?" "Did he fall or jump?" "I think he was pushed!"

"No!" Steven groaned again, "I want to stop, I want…"

He rolled over and crawled towards the edge once more. The crowd merely gasped, but Brendan's brain was beginning to work. He grabbed Steven around the middle and pulled him back.

"No!" Steven shouted, "No!"

"Steven!" Brendan hissed.

"You're not real! Let me go!"

"No, Steven!" Brendan growled, "I'm not letting you! You've got kids! You can't…"

"No, I don't!" Steven shouted, "They hate me! Better off without me! Let me go!"

"No!" Brendan shouted, "No!"

Steven wriggled, miserably, but he'd never been a match for Brendan's strength, and he'd clearly not been looking after himself. He was even skinnier than Brendan remembered, like Brendan could snap him if he let him fight.

He lifted Steven off his feet, which shouldn't have been possible, but he was so thin now it barely wore him out. Steven only struggled more. "Let me down!" he shouted, "I'm…"

"Steven! It's me!" Brendan roared. And Steven went limp in his arms, like a rag doll. His head was the only sign that he was still alive. It moved slowly, drifting round until the gaze landed on Brendan. Where it got stuck. Glued in shock.

"You're not real," he whispered.

"I am, Steven, I swear I am," Brendan replied, "Look at me!"

"I see you all the time!" Steven insisted, "And Doug, and he's not even alive."

"Then feel me," Brendan breathed.

Steven turned more fully, and Brendan, believing he wasn't about to try again now, let him, though kept his arms ready for signs of running to the edge. He put his hands on Brendan's shoulders, then ran them up to his face, into the beard. "Yeah, the beard is stupid," he said, "I'd never imagine you with a beard."

Brendan let out a breathy laugh, "I'll shave it off," he promised without thinking.

Steven shivered, and Brendan too realised how dripping wet they were. He wrapped his arms around Steven, pulling him close. He tried to let the warmth of his body do the job. He didn't want to move. He had his arms around Steven. He wanted the world to explode at that moment so he'd never have to experience the end of this.

They clung to each other on the pier. Eventually they would have to talk, about Steven's obvious drug problem, about Brendan's violence, about both of them deciding to commit suicide on the same day and having hallucinations of each other. But right now, they had their arms around each other.

And that was everything.

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